And I Hope to See You Again
by A Random Person With a Pen
Summary: It has been two years since John Watson was brutally murdered in a back alley. It has been two years since Sherlock Holmes succumbed to his own emotions. It has been two years since everything in the world- absolutely everything- became pointless to Sherlock, since John was not around to make Sherlock feel whole. Rated T for darker themes. AU. Set after Series 3.
1. Part One

**I do not own BBC Sherlock. So please don't sue me. **

**And this is rated T for a very good reason. Just a word of warning. Italics indicate things in the past.**

**This is the first Sherlock story I have ever written and posted, although I have been a part of the fandom for quite some time. I was really excited when I got this idea, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I mean, I'm not a sadist, but I wanted a little more angst in the archive. Review only if you want, but they are always welcome. :) I do write short replies to all reviews.**

**And another word of forewarning, there may be some slight OOCness, but it does work in the given context. Also, the second part will explain some things in this first one. **

**Miss Hale, this is dedicated to you, my Superwholock friend.**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

He awoke in a pool of his own sticky sweat, and the presence of the vile transport fluid's ghastly smell could only be acutely discerned by his current sense of smell; mucus had gathered in his nostrils and was slowly pouring out onto his Cupid's bow, and he deduced that of he were to summon his energy and get up from his bed and look at his sorry reflection, he would find red rims around his eyes, salt streaks from tears, and quite possibly, wrinkles. His throat ached, and his lips had split open- sure signs that he had been screaming all night, a common occurrence ever since The Day happened. Sherlock wondered why Mrs. Hudson hadn't come up into the flat to wake him up. His nightmares had to be disturbing the other tenants as much as they were disturbing him. But then again, his rougher nights normally went by in a blur, with him losing all lucidity and unable to discern where his hallucinations stopped and reality began. She probably had used her master key to get into the flat and try to wake him up, and he just did not remember it or what he might have done to her.

He made a resolve to buy her flowers or something of that nature.

Sherlock rolled onto his back and sighed. He could feel the remaining life being sucked out of the flat and even more emptiness filling the rooms. He could feel what little energy he could maintain fall from his grasp, as had so much else. And to make matters worse, he could hear the pedestrians outside going about their pathetic, boring, normal lives as though nothing was significant about that day. To make matters worse, he could not look around him and not contemplate the fact he was still residing in what used to be _their _flat.

Today was another anniversary of the turning point in the life of Sherlock Holmes- an event even more life-altering than the Reichenbach Fall. Two years prior to that very day John Watson had been stolen from his world. And no, it was not the anniversary of John and Mary's wedding, although that still was a day worthy of dread. The Day, as Sherlock would forever call it, was the day in which Dr. John Hamish Watson was murdered before his very eyes. But no matter what the newspapers or the Yard said about John's death, Sherlock did not and would never say that John was murdered- he wouldn't even say that he died. No, John was robbed of his life. Because that's what murder was in Sherlock's mind after John's death- an advanced form of theft that steals from everyone who ever knew one person. And he knew it sounded sentimental, but it was also something he never told anyone.

"Ugh." He placed a hand over his eyes, since of a ray of sunlight had crept its way through the curtains and landed on his face. "Of all the days for the sun to make a rare appearance in London," he murmured. Sherlock thought about looking at the clock to check the time, but then he decided that it really did not matter. The wave of visitors and well-wishers and we're-here-for-you-naysayers were going to be bothering him no matter what time of the day it was.

He knew Mrs. Hudson would be the first to make an appearance. And, truth be told, he was the least anxious about her visit than all the others', the exception being Molly's visit, mainly because she was not as intrusive as some of his other visitors. Mrs. Hudson would no doubt bring tea into his bedroom and be wearing and extra layer of clothing to hide whatever he could have done to her in his deluded stages of sleep. She would not want to add to his guilt-ridden, god-damned emotions, and he was thankful for that.

He heard the soft pitter-patter of her footsteps. Sherlock drew in a long breath and let it go. "Here we go, John," he whispered. His bedroom door slowly opened, and Mrs. Hudson stepped inside his bedroom clad in a thick sweater and with a tray with two tea cups in her hands.

"Good morning." Her voice seemed devoid of all emotion, hard, unforgiving, and uncharacteristic of the old woman. Sherlock figured she was trying to be tough in the hopes that she could possibly get him to snap out of his near-comatose state. Last year, she had tried to fill a more consoling role; Mrs. Hudson had stayed by Sherlock's bedside the entire day, for that was were he spent it, and coaxed tea into his system between the constant check-ups from every person he knew. Her tough bravado soon faded, and she had taken to wiping the snot away from Sherlock's nose while he took a single sip from his tea. He decided that he needed to buy her two bouquets of flowers once this day was over.

"Don't you think you need to shower before your brother gets here?" Mrs. Hudson asked with the smallest of smiles on her face.

"I'll get the sentiment speech whether I'm clean or not." His voice sounded small in his ears.

"Very well." Mrs. Hudson took a sip from her tea. "I was thinking about going to Jo- _his _grave later today. And well, I didn't know if you felt up to it."

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. He had never been able to bring himself to visit John's burial site after the funeral, which he was in a daze for the main duration of. He did not know whether or not he felt up to it- if he would ever feel up to it, so he pretended as though he did not hear what Mrs. Hudson had said.

She saw right through his act, much like John would have been able to do. Maybe that was a side-effect of living with Sherlock Holmes: you learned to understand the signs and saw bits and pieces of went on behind the mask."That's quite alright, dear. It's still hard for me to visit that place, too."

* * *

><p><em>The knife landed right in the middle of John Watson's chest. Sherlock's heart fell into his stomach as John fell to the ground, though it was still able to pound in his ears and block out all of the noise of civilian London. He no longer cared about the blasted criminal that had killed two average, boring people and had tried to outrun them in the alleyways.<em>

_Sherlock did not know whether he screamed or not, and technically, he didn't care. John's eyes flinched and then opened, their gaze focused directly on the protruding blade, or rather, the hilt. The blade had to be several inches into his chest. He coughed, causing thick, red blood to pour from the side of his mouth. A pool of that oh-so-vital transport liquid was spilling out onto the pavement. _

_Sherlock bent beside him and held John's head in his lap. Their eyes met and stayed that way for what seemed like forever. It was in that moment that Sherlock's mask finally fell off in an area other then the protected abode of 221B Baker Street. Tears gathered in his eyes, and it was not long before they cascaded down his cheekbones. _

_"Should I even-" Sherlock started. John knew it was over, and he shook his head negatively. _

_"You cannot do this to me, John!" The tears started to fall more fervently. "Do you not understand that?"_

_"No," John replied, although it was barely audible. He brought his hand up and brushed some of the tears off of Sherlock's cheeks. "This is the most emotion I think you've ever shown to me.__"_

_"I'm the reason you're in this position. I'm the reason you're dying. I promise you, I will kill that man who did this to you." The man in question had already fled the area._

_"No. Sherlock, do not stoop to his level."_

_Sherlock sniffed. "I'm already below him."_

_John managed a grin. "You are so blind, Sherlock Holmes. You may be a genius, but you are so blind. You're a terrific person... that has amazing skills at being an arse."_

_"I should have done more, John. I really should have. I wish I could have done it over. I should have told you how much I cared about you more often." He paused to let out another sob. "I do care about you, and I always will."_

_There was a distant siren. Someone must have looked out from the windows overlooking the alley, saw them, and called 999._

_"I am fine with the way things happened," John said. His voice grew more tired by the second as the pool of blood increased. "I wouldn't trade it for anything. And I'm so happy I get these final seconds with you."_

_"Now I know how you felt... on that day."_

_"It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine." And with that, the hand that was wiping Sherlock's tears fell, and a soft exhale came from John's lips. Sherlock broke out into sharp sobs and closed John's eyes out of respect. The only person that he truly cared about, and the only person he was actually positive cared about him, was dead. _

_The world fell into darkness. The sky was pointless. The buildings were pointless. The universe was pointless. His flat was pointless. His work was pointless. His life was pointless._

_The dark world around him fell into a blur. He began to pound the pavement. He hated everything. He hated the criminal whom he couldn't kill because of John's final plea. He hated the knife in John's chest. He hated the dark, smelly alley that John had the misfortune of spending his final moments. John deserved to die at home, in his bed, at peace with the world, surrounded by his wife and child, and older than he was at the bloody time. This death- this demise at the hands of a demon incarnate- was supposed to be Sherlock's death. He hated that Lestrade even asked him to take the case. He hated that Molly couldn't supply him with enough body parts to keep him occupied long enough so that he didn't have to take cases. He hated that Mary always tried to get him and John to hang out with each other. He hated Mycroft even more for shoving him into rehab and finding him overdosed when he could have died and never met John at all, even though the times he had spent with John were some of the happiest in his life. _

_But most of all, he hated himself. He hated himself for not being able to keep his mind occupied, for asking John to come with him- he even asked him to do it for old time's sake, for loving the game- an almost sadistic term for his line of work- so much that he had to pursue that killer to the ends of the earth, for not seeing the signs that the man was about to throw a concealed weapon, for not jumping in front of John and taking the knife himself, and for not telling John how much he truly needed him at that moment and throughout their time together. _

_They found him sobbing over John's dead body. He was screaming. At what no one could tell. It took three officers to pry him away._

* * *

><p>The fat, pompous git took his precious time walking throughout his flat and entering his room, as Sherlock noted. If Mrs. Hudson had not taken to keeping a post in the kitchen to be there to help in any <em>developments <em>that could happen, and had he not had the notion that his actions would have proven to be a disservice to John's memory and/or final plea, Sherlock would have impaled Mycroft with his own blasted umbrella.

Mycroft Holmes entered his younger brother's room. His eyes darted between the sweaty sheets, his lousy-looking younger brother, and the half-empty cup of tea sitting on the end table. He cleared his throat. "You've actually consumed something today."

"And you've gained a stone. Your point?"

Mycroft smiled. "Quite contrary. But I'm not here to talk about that."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course, you are here to talk about baby brother's knack for being pathetically sentimental. Go on. The floor is yours. Give your speech. I might actually learn something this time."He rolled his blue eyes.

"Sherlock-"

"Oh, Sherlock, brother dear, what did I tell you?" he said in his best imitation voice of Mycroft. "Sentiment is a weakness. And now look at what you are." He laughed haughtily. "Honestly, you think that I am weak for letting him in my life. You must have this notion that I am incapable of even handling my own thoughts. We all know you aren't! I mean, look at you!"

"Sherlock-" He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock, who had risen to an elevated position in his fit, sank back into his pillow. "W-what?"

"You heard what I said. I'm sorry. Don't make me say it again."

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. Why in the hell did his git of an older brother just say that to him? "I don't understand the joke..."

"I didn't think you would." Mycroft took a step forward, sat down on the end of the bed, and fixed his eyes on Sherlock's feet, which could threaten to push him off at any moment. _Oaf, _Sherlock thought.

"During the ride over here, Anthea and I discussed what I needed to say, and believe it or not, I do think about what I say to you since the incident two years ago today. Anthea's really useful in all sorts of sitautions, you know." He looked up at Sherlock. "She said that you would want me to address you as I normally would, and that was what you would be expecting. And, judging by your reaction, she was not wrong."

Mycroft Holmes eased slightly. "But I'm not sure that's what I want to do. I saw how you were with Dr. Watson. I saw light in your eyes again, and you didn't even try to hide it. And I think you've made significant progress from where you once were, and I think that you have the right to feel whatever you want."

Sherlock looked at the window and then back at his older brother. "What are you getting at? Just because you were not affected by that day does not mean that I was not. I still am! I see that knife every time I close my eyes!"

"You have forgotten much, little brother. But of course you would have no recollection of your helpless period! Your pride would be damaged by your own memories. Admit it."

"John was my life! He mattered to me more than my work ever did. He cared for me more than you ever did."

"I am not disrespecting John, little brother. I know he was a good friend to you, and I know I have had shortcomings. But once more, the deletion process proves obsolete." Mycroft stands. "Again, I'm not demeaning your relationship with John. When was around you, I knew you would be okay. I knew I could count on your well-being. I feel that I cannot stress that to you enough."

"You wanted a clear conscience. You wanted me out of your hair, you git."

"And that, brother dear, is where you are wrong." The thing that Sherlock's nerve the most was that Mycroft actually looked like he meant what he was saying.

Sherlock was fuming, and if it was any other day, he would have screamed loud enough to shatter the windows. "Get out! I want you out of here. I want you out our flat. I want you off of this street."

Mycroft turned to leave, but then stopped. His grip hardened on his umbrella. "John wanted to see you happy. That much was apparent. And I saw how much you cared about him, whether you accept it or not. I really do hope you can move on without him." He then ducked out of the room to avoid being hit by a flying alarm clock.

"Typical," he muttered and stormed out of the flat.

Mrs. Hudson came into Sherlock's bedroom shortly after Mycroft left. "Everything alright, dear?"

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, it's just the normal routine." He knew it wasn't. He knew that everything that just came out of his brother's selfish mouth was twisted. Why else would Mycroft be being saying such sentimental things when he was the epiphany of human machines? No, it was not the normal routine. But then again, this was not a normal day.


	2. Part Two

**Hello everyone! Glad to see you have returned. (rubs hands together maliciously) I had quite the fun writing this piece. I just love seeing characters so... ****_helpless... _****I'm kidding. Only Moffat finds _that_ amount of pleasure in making characters (and the audience) suffer.**

**There is some OOCness in this chapter, and possible Johnlock. But I still hope you can enjoy it, even if it doesn't exactly suit your fancy. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock. And if I did, there would be actual seasons (consisting of twenty-something-one-hour episodes) and they would be made on a more consistent basis. The Hobbit should have been made in one movie to begin with. Peter Jackson or whoever the director is of TH and LOTR needs to move on.**

**As usual, italics indicate things in the past.**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

* * *

><p><em>An eerie silence and a blanket of dust had fallen over 221B Baker Street. Gone were the days of cases, borderline psychopathic experiments on dead organs, depressing violin music, and random wall shootings. The chaos that used to define the flat was still there, though it was now dormant, suspended in a specific time and place- a time in which there were two tenants of that flat. It was as if someone hit the pause button on all movement or life within those walls. Maybe that was what startled Mycroft Holmes when he walked inside his younger brother's home.<em>

_He had Anthea cancel all of his appointments for the day as soon as he received that exasperated call from Mrs. Hudson. It was a week after John's funeral, and Mycroft knew Sherlock would be a sentimental mess for quite some time. But he did not believe what Mrs. Hudson had said about Sherlock's condition, and now, looking around the tomb-like flat that his younger brother was currently existing in, Mycroft wished he had gotten there faster. _

_He wasted no time getting to Sherlock's bedroom. He found his younger brother sprawled out on top of his bed, half of his body tangled in sheets, the other hanging over the side of the side of the mattress. Judging by the pungent smell that had permeated the air in the closed off room, Sherlock had not taken a shower since the morning of the funeral. The suit in which Sherlock wore to said funeral had been slumped unceremoniously over the bed frame. _

_Mycroft set his umbrella against the wall and approached Sherlock, who either was in such a confused state that he did not notice Mycroft's presence or simply no longer cared who entered the flat and who left. Mycroft figured it was probably a combination of both. The first thing he needed to do was get Sherlock out of the web of silk bedclothes. He rolled Sherlock onto his back and threaded his limbs through each loop in the sheets; he was more than a bit taken taken back over how compliant Sherlock was- how limp his body had become. It reminded Mycroft of all the times he had found his younger brother overdosed in back alleys and abandoned buildings, which gave him the idea of checking up with Lestrade to see if there had been any drug busts over the past week or if there were to be any in the near future._

_Mycroft looked down at his hands, which were now covered in Sherlock's sweat and grime. Despite being absolutely disgusted and having now felt an all too new level of pity towards his brother, Mycroft managed his normal, emotionless expression. _

_"I came because Mrs. Hudson wanted me to." Mycroft did not know whether Sherlock was sane enough at the time to hear him, but he kept going, buying as much time as possible before he had to reluctantly do the inevitable. But he would suck up his displeasure and do it for Sherlock, even is he hadn't taken his advice. "She called me personally, and she sounded quite provoked over the phone. I can see why. Now, I am more than prepared to keep you functioning by force, something Mrs. Hudson should never have to do. I am the right person for that job. Are you going to cooperate or not?"_

_There was no verbal response, as Mycroft had expected. Sherlock merely turned his head and looked at him before returning his gaze to the ceiling. Mycroft drew a long breath. "Fine," he said and headed towards the bathroom to get the water flowing into the tub. The water flowed through the pipes, which hissed due to being dormant for so long. As he headed back to fetch his younger brother, he wondered how they both got to such a position, and the man who proclaimed himself the British Government embodiment did not normally do that. He knew exactly why most of the things that happened to him happened, whether it be by his own hand or someone else's. Mycroft was not sure how long this was going to go on, and he knew it would get progressively worse in terms of Sherlock. _

_As the water reached a comfortably warm temperature and began to fill in the imitation porcelain basin, Mycroft headed back into Sherlock's room. He slumped Sherlock's left arm over his shoulder and stood his younger brother upright. There was no objection to Mycroft's movements. He removed Sherlock's trousers and realized he had seen the detective naked more times than he would have liked. The Ice Man was distantly reminded of the incident in Buckingham Palace as he helped his brother into the tub. _

_There was no other person in the goldfish-filled world that Mycroft would do this for, and he was willing to do it for the only person he thought was smart enough to deserve his sympathy._

* * *

><p>He had to get out of that flat. He needed fresh air. He needed to get away from all of the reminders. Sherlock got up from his bed, flung open his closet, and grabbed the first pair of pants and shirt that he saw. Mrs. Hudson heard all the banging and came into his bedroom to make sure nothing harmful was taking place.<p>

"What are you doing, dear?"

"I can't stay here anymore." His voice was shaking. as were his hands as he tried to button up his shirt. "I'm getting some air."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and looked away. "Just watch were you walk to," she murmured before promptly leaving. He did not have to be told twice. Sherlock normally stood clear of his dealer's past neighborhoods, but now he avoided all businesses near that alleyway like the plague.

* * *

><p><em>Lestrade could not believe his eyes. The emotionless mask that the sociopath detective normally wore had fallen off, revealing the shattered, broken soul that lived underneath. He clutched John's corpse like it was his only lifeline, and, in a way, John truly was. It was as if Sherlock was hoping John would suddenly hear his tears, inhabit his flesh body once again, grab onto Sherlock, and tell him everything was alright and that there was no reason to cry. But Lestrade knew that Sherlock knew better. They had both been in the business of murder and death for far too long to ever hope that this was just a near-death experience and not the end of John. <em>

_Blood had seeped onto Sherlock's Belstaf and even his dark curls. John's head was in his lap, and he had taken to rocking back and forth, absentmindedly mumbling words like "please" and "don't leave me." Lestrade's heart dropped; he knew a pint of beer would be calling his name once this night was over. Donovan and Anderson had also arrived at the scene, but there were no snarky remarks or casual name-calling that night. After that night, the word "freak" never left either of their mouths. Instead, their mouths collectively flew open at the scene of the consulting detective and his former flatmate._

_"Remove him," Lestrade ordered two nearby officers. When they tried to pry Sherlock away from John's body, he retaliated and gave one of the officers a black eye and the other a jab in the gut, which knocked all of the oxygen out of the young officer. Another officer stepped forward to help the others, and after a brief struggle, the three men separated the two friends. They had to drag Sherlock across the pavement to prevent him from going back to John's body. Sherlock's screams filled the dark alleyway, and the residents who lived in the flats overlooking the sorry spectacle watched it all take place from their windows. _

_"He'll have to be taken in," one of the paramedics told Lestrade. "We'll bag his clothes as well as check him for any possible injuries."_

_"Might as well admit him into the psychiatric ward," Lestrade replied. "At least restrain him. He's now more of a harm to himself than anything."_

_Sherlock was being wrapped in the orange shock blanket. "We will in the ambulance if this- behavior persists. The hospital will have to decide any further health decisions."_

_Lestrade nodded. It seemed as though another drug bust was about to be necessary, and soon._

_"DI Lestrade!" He turned around to meet the officer who called his name. "We have apprehended the man linked to the two cafe Jane Doe murders. He was found during the ride over here, about a few blocks away, sir."_

_"Good," he murmured and waved his hand dismissively. Maybe that would give Sherlock a little peace of mind- to know that the man who murdered his best friend was arrested. But everyone knew he was never going to be the same again, no matter how the killer was treated. _

* * *

><p>Sherlock found himself doing a lot of things John used to do. He started drinking John's favorite tea, and he found he actually had a taste for it. He picked up The Hobbit, read it from cover to cover, and vowed to read it again. Every time he would think about Bilbo's character, his thoughts would always jump back to John and the times they spent together. Sherlock caught himself on many occasions either watching the crap telly that John loved so much, a habit he figured he must have picked up even before John's death; he thought it started around the week after John's wedding. He found it was as good of a distraction as he was going to get during the times that Lestrade was low on cases for him to solve, not that he was meeting the proper health requirements to do so anyway. But the main habit that Sherlock seemed to relish in was walking. It became a part of his routine, and now it had permeated itself into the day in which Sherlock normally spent in his bed.<p>

Somehow he had managed to make it all the way to the park in his dazed wandering. It was a peaceful day in London weather-wise. London did not necessarily have the time for a moment of calm; most of its residents were too preoccupied with their own lives to give a damn about a rest in the busy city's routine. But, uncustomary of the normal British way of life, the clouds rolled across the sky but did not block the sunlight. Sherlock always knew meteorologists were idiots. He had deleted all of his knowledge about weather forecasting, and yet he could have probably made a more accurate prediction than whoever the hell the scientist was behind the weekly forecast. Perhaps all of the crap telly was wearing on his brain.

But meteorologists were not as stupid as therapists, in Sherlock's opinion.

Lestrade had created a new set of requirements for Sherlock to meet in order to be allowed to aid in cases. The abstinence from drug use was a precedent that Sherlock had already met and continued to meet even after John's death, all thanks to John's final plea, of course. But now, in order for Sherlock to be able to solve someone's murder, he had to visit a therapist regularly _and _take the anti-depressants that had been prescribed to him after some Mycroft-mandated doctor's visits. It had been a while since he had been called in for a case, since Lestrade was aware that Sherlock was not doing a majority of the things that were expected of him- certainly nothing new, and even when he was it was only when the Yard had been thoroughly stumped and the only way they could have closed the case was to contact Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before sitting down on a nearby bench; his frequent headaches always seemed to come at the most unfortunate times. He reasoned it was probably best if he did not see a dead body without medical guidance and permission, lest he suffer a flashback or panic attack as soon as he arrived at the scene of the crime. And he hated that he came to that conclusion.

"Hey, mate."

"I'm not going out to the pub with you, so don't even think of inviting me," Sherlock said as Lestrade sat down next to him.

"Oh, I wasn't going to," he replied. "I must say that the flat is looking much better."

"It took me quite a while to clean up after that last drug bust." Sherlock was on the verge of letting something about not having any help come out of his mouth, but then he remembered Lestrade's normal response about it not being his division, and then he thought about how John used to help clean up after the notorious drug busts. _  
><em>

"You know I'd let you come back to help the Yard if you'd-"

"I understand," Sherlock said, but it didn't catch Lestrade of guard. Perhaps that was something else you got used to when you worked with Sherlock Holmes: you learned who got the majority of talking time in any given conversation. "Believe it or not, I'll take my boredom and the nice seclusion of my flat over any therapy session."

"I was expecting as much." He rubbed his hands on his pants. "But you know, you'll never recover from that night if you don't say something to someone."

"I am managing. It's the anniversary of his death and I've actually been able to get out of bed!" As soon as he heard himself say that, Sherlock was smacked in the face with the truth. He actually got out of the flat on a day where he should have been drained. Lestrade saw Sherlock's reaction, since the sociopath mask never really slipped back into the correct position after that night.

"I found the letters you wrote in the drug bust last week," Lestrade whispered. "While you think that you are fine, it doesn't sound like you are mate, especially with the water marks all over those letters."

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. They found them- all of those letters he had written to John during his two year hiatus, all of the letters he had written to John after the wedding, and all of the letters he had written to John after the murder- each one expressing the thoughts and emotions Sherlock couldn't say aloud. They had found them, and they had read them. Every single one.

Sherlock stood up. Tears began to collect in his eyes, and he would not give Lestrade the satisfaction of seeing him cry, no matter how many times the DI had done something or said something that would indicate genuine care for Sherlock's well-being. "Y-You son of a-"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Why does every body keep saying that to me," Sherlock murmured to himself, but then he raised his voice. "Do you have any idea what sort of intrusion you have made on my privacy?! Do you have any idea how it felt to write those letters, to know that the feelings you felt towards a person were never going to be returned?" People were starting to stare, and no doubt some reporter was probably roaming about and would not doubt snap a photo of him in this state, but Sherlock didn't care.

"There's no need to get so riled up, mate. I was the only one who saw them. It was mandatory that every part of the flat be searched. They're still the way you left them."

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock's voice was cracking. He needed to find a way to escape this conversation and fast.

"I think you should be taking better care of yourself than how you are."

"Since when have I done that? You know, it doesn't even matter. I haven't taken a case from you in a long time, not that you've exactly offered me one." Sherlock forced himself to straighten up and say what he felt he needed to. "I'm through with the Yard. You can issue drug busts all you want." Before he walked off, he turned to the DI and whispered, "My brother was right, you know. Sentiment is a weakness. Maybe its time you stopped showing it to me."

The former world's-only-consulting-detective walked off, not daring to look back.

* * *

><p>He landed fast-first onto his pillow. It took a lot of his strength not to burst out into tears. He had the perfect opportunity to do so. Mrs. Hudson had retreated to her own flat. He wouldn't be bothered. He could cry about anything and everything and no one would hear him. The only one who could have been around to hear him was dead.<p>

How could he have done that? How could he have jeopardized the only part of his former life that he could at least put his hopes upon: the cases? He knew he never would have gotten one anyway, but what if he did manage to bring himself to a therapy session or take his pill every morning with his tea? And what if they helped? What if he had managed to throw away those letters since he now had someone to confide in the way he could with John?

But that was when he pushed all of the other thoughts away. There was no person on that forsaken planet that he could trust more than John Watson, even if Sherlock did feel a little bit abandoned when John married Mary. He hadn't even heard from her after John's death. The last time they saw each other was at the funeral...

"Why does that even matter?!" he yelled, and he was aware that he was the only one in the room. "Why did any of this even matter to me?"


	3. Part Three

**Hi everyone! Thank you for all of your follows and favorites. It warms my heart. It really does. That being said... Sorry for the little delay in the next update. I had three essays assigned and due all in the same week, and now I have another one, and then there was this lab with a roller coaster... Anyway, I was busy. **

**Mind where you tread. There is some serious Johnlock in this chapter, and the emotions that I received watching the last episode of Legend of Korra have been channeled into this as well. It has been subsequently shorter because of this, my workload, and because I wanted to give all those who enjoy this story a chapter before New Years. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock.**

**Shout out to all my friends, ghastly beasts, you lot...**

**Comealongpond221: Why thank you. *slides a bunch of virtual fezzes across the table***

**Enjoy. And happy holidays.**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

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><p>The freshly cleaned wood shone brightly beneath the sun's rays. A thousand thoughts were racing through Sherlock's already overactive mind as a thousand particles of dust floated in the light coming from the windows. This was the first time in what was certainly a long time that Sherlock had opened the curtains. He liked to absorb as much of his surroundings as he could whenever he was composing, which he was at the time, or simply trying to clear his head of all the information he subconsciously stored, or whether he was in the act of wishing he was someone else. It was quite possible that he was doing the latter as well.<p>

He had composed many songs since John had left his world. All of them were slow and heart-breaking, as per Sherlock's style. But these had to have been some of the most well-written and the most emotional pieces of music Sherlock Holmes had ever composed. And now, he had set about to do it again. However, he was not out to produce another composition to force the listener into a state of melancholy. He was trying to make something that would reflect John- that would reflect the very power he needed to drag himself from the low position he had found himself in. He felt the need to make anyone who would ever hear that piece of music understand how he felt about John. He wanted the world to listen to his violin and feel the same way about John and give him the respect he deserved. He wanted the universe to feel the emotion behind every note. But most importantly, Sherlock wished he could make his music reach all the way up to heaven and reach John's ears, and he wanted the selfish, murdering bastard that was rotting in hell to know the extent of Sherlock's hatred.

But now matter how many horrifyingly sentimental thoughts he summoned, Sherlock could not make the music flow, and that angered him even more. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his bow, and it took even more strength to let go, lest he risk breaking his bow or even worse, his violin. The wall was not that far away from where he was standing, and he figured it would not be difficult to smash his beautiful instrument against the plaster...

He shook his head. He knew it would not change anything. He know knew that time was not the healer it was reported to be; he felt that every second that passed was deepening his wounds, and that was quite unfortunate since the only person who Sherlock would willfully allow to tend his his wounds was-

"NO!" Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears. He glanced over at the clock to see if that dreadful day was going to end sometime soon, and to his dismay, the day was still very much young. As Sherlock stared at the digital, red numbers, the philosophical contrast between night and day to which the pathetic humans liked to agree with became so obliviously truthful that Sherlock nearly lost his breakfast tea. More rather, it rose to his throat.

Of course! How could he have been so daft?! Those who relished in the night did so because their deeds were evil, and the darkness served as a veil to whatever atrocities their hearts were set on. They loathed the daylight because the light revealed all that they had done to the eyes of all who wanted to see. And now, as the daylight came through the windows onto his violin, he understood that philosophy completely. Moreover, he understood himself, even though he normally felt that he had himself very well mapped-out.

_You asshole, _an annoying, random voice of subconscious said in the back of his mind. Well, he already knew that, but it was amplified by what that voice said next. _You dragged him out there on that night. And why? For your own selfish ambitions. Why do you feel such need for excitement when you know what sort of implications it could have? Look at what you've done! You're worse off than before John came into your life. Do you even know why John came into your life? I think you do. You're not that stupid. You had a comfortable, rare flat at a reasonable price. Who wouldn't swallow their pride ans summon all of their humbleness to put up with you if it meant living in this place?_

"John," he muttered to himself, drowning out the voice in his head, which was still rambling on. He hoped that John could hear him in heaven, or wherever those who made good in their lives resided after death, since there was no way in hell that John had been sentenced to hell, in Sherlock's opinion."I'm sorry. I really am."

A solemn tear fell from his left eye and left a salt streak on his cheekbones and on his beak-like nose, for his head had bowed subconsciously to help him consciously sobbing. The voice in his head rambled about his mistakes.

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><p>Sherlock had written many letters to John during his two year "vacation." John never knew about them during his lifetime, and to that day, Sherlock did not know whether that was a good thing or not. Perhaps he should have showed them to him after that night at the French restaurant. It would have been proper to do so afte he had been there for a few weeks, after John had cooled off, but Sherlock never did. Maybe the tear marks and the running ink would have mended the bridges that were still torn between them, and maybe John and Mary's engagement could have been called off even if she was pregnant, and maybe Sherlock would have had the pleasure of having the man he cared about care about him the same way, impossible as he figured that would have been.<p>

Those letters were the only things that gave him hope through those two years of hardship, tracking, and killing, aside from his memories of 221B. Had John not been his flatmate before he was forced to dismantle Moriarty's web, well, Sherlock figured the loss of some of the incentive would have resulted in more failures and even his death. Now, with all of the sentiment that had consumed his mind, he wondered if the universe had used John to teach him lesson, and that his emotions were his punishment for rejecting his emotions.

Nonetheless, as the voice faded away, Sherlock picked up a stray piece of paper and a fountain pen and started writing a letter to John. He knew it was foolish, there was no way John would ever see it.

_Dear John,_

_There are so many things I wish I could have said to you during our time together, our time apart, in your final moments, and especially now. You were far too caring for your own good, you humble git. You really should have left this flat after the first week. I am the reason you are dead, John, despite my best efforts to prevent that. _

He took a deep breath before he continued writing.

_Contrary to what I would have most people believe, I _do _express some sort of emotion every once in a while, and you were among the few who actually comprehended that. I miss the way you would always make two cups of tea every morning. I miss the way you would simply drop everything at the surgery and run towards my calls. I miss coming home to crap television and to take-out. I miss watching you write your blog posts. I miss the way you would always come home to me and call out my name to make sure I had not gotten myself killed. I miss the way you would always sniff out my cigarettes and throw them away, even though I would gripe and complain when you did. I've actually kicked the habit since you've been gone. It's what you always wanted me to do._

Sherlock heard shuffling outside of his flat and hid the letter from the view of anyone bursting in the door. There was no need for anyone to see what his pathetic, weak mind was making him produce. When the noises passed, and he was positive he was safe, he wiped a tear from his left eye that was threatening to fall and brought the letter back out.

_I really did care about you. There was no real evidence of that, but I did. I still do. I haven't taken a case, partially because Lestrade's new requirements show how blind the DI can be sometimes, but also because my partner-in-solving-crime isn't here beside me. The Yard would give me some lousy, incompetent partner who could not see half of the things you could after hanging around me for so long. I never deserved you, John. You can talk as long as you wish about how I saved you, about how you felt purpose again after living with me. But you must understand this, you did more beneficial things to me than I did to you. _

_But you do not have to worry anymore, my dear Watson. If heaven really does exist, you must have been placed there when you died. You can enjoy all of the splendors of living righteously. Do not fear. I will not be joining you. I will be condemned. I will join the other self-righteous assholes. You can enjoy paradise, for I will not be there to ruin it, as I did your life. Even though they were a part of your last words, I am not a good person. A good person does not take advantage of you as I did. A good person would have found a way to drop a message by their friends that they were still alive after they were dead. Even though it was for your safety, I put you through hell, and I can never forgive myself for that. How you managed to be civil with me after I came back, I will never know._

Sobs threatened to rack his body- his severely human body. He kept going.

_Mrs. Hudson asked if I wanted to visit your grave today. I know you visited my grave many times during those two years. Well, guess what? It's actually been two years you have died as well, and I haven't dared to go near that grave marker since your funeral. Tell me, what kind of good person doesn't go to their friend's grave after they have died? You did because out for the two of us, you were the one who was the angel. Yes, you were the angel that caused me to be on the side of the angels, if you did not know that already._

_But I have gathered my courage. It takes courage to have sentiment, and that would also make you the bravest and most noble out of the two of us. I am going to your grave today with Mrs. Hudson. I know you said you have forgiven me for all the terrible things I did to you, how I used you, and how I got you killed. I see you in that alley every time I close my eyes. I will bring flowers. _

_Yours Eternally,_

_Sherlock _


	4. Part Four

**Hello. (sips Mountain Dew and eats a Pixie Stick) You're in for a treat. I jsut started listening to the soundtrack that plays during the final scene of Legend of Korra, and thanks to sugar and sentiment, I have a new chapter for you guys. **

**Italics indicate thoughts or flashbacks.**

**I do not own BBC Sherlock. This is a trigger warning: funerals and grave visits ahead.**

**Thank you for all of your support. This story has reached 500 views and counting. There is one more chapter after this one, and it is an epilogue. **

**Enjoy. **

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

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><p><em>John was lucky, <em>Sherlock reasoned. _His wishes came true. He wished I was still alive, and it came true, and I came back to London. Now, I foolishly wish for the ability to wish for such a miracle to happen in my case. _

He was not sure whether this cab ride was taking an eternity and needed to be quicker, or if the cabby was purposely disobeying traffic laws and going beyond the established speed limit in order to bring him to where he should be on this day- instead of in bed- as quickly as possible. As he watched the buildings go by, he wondered what he was going to do once he got to John's burial site. What would he say? Should he say anything at all? Perhaps it would best to simply place the letter on the headstone, say a few words of regret and reverence, and leave as quickly as he came? He decided he should stay a little longer than that, since John did it for him, even though the situation of Sherlock's supposed burial was much different than John's.

_Is it really? _The voice in his head was back. As he listened to the voice more closely, he reasoned it sounded like a combination of John and Mycroft's voices. _People still feel grief, whether the person they cared about faked their death or is truly gone. They are similar, whether you accept that or not. In both instances, one of you was without the other. _

He sighed quietly, not wanting Mrs. Hudson, who was remarkably in the cab with him, to direct any more of her attention towards him. He had seen her watching him closely out the corner of his eye more than once since they had gotten into the cab, and frankly, it was unnerving to him to see his respected landlady in such distress over his distress, even though his was less obvious. The tear-stained paper on which he had written his recent letter was tucked neatly in his right pocket, and though it weighed about as much as a few feathers, he felt as though he had filled his pocket with a pound of lead. He wondered how he was going to approach that grave with something that was so ridden with sentiment in his pocket, he wondered how he would have gotten to John's grave even if he had not brought it, and he wondered how he had even gone down to Mrs. Hudson's flat to announce his plans to go with her.

"Are feeling alright, Sherlock?" she whispered. He wanted to turn to hear and scream at how foolish she was for asking a question with such a simple answer, even if he was invoking all of his long-forgotten sociopath powers to hide what was happening inside of his head. But he did not, because Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson well enough to know that she was well-aware of the war raging inside of him, and she was only trying to get him to admit to it.

"I'm just tired, that's all."

"Indeed. You gave me quite the scare last night."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. I-"

"It's quite alright." She folded her hands in her lap. "I am always happy to help you, Sherlock, and I didn't call your brother, for your information."

He almost scowled at the thought of Mycroft bursting into his bedroom in the early morning, but then he eased at the thought of how peculiar it would look to an outsider. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

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><p><em>It had rained ever since John had been brought into the morgue at St. Bart's, and it continued to do so for days and into his funeral. Sherlock had waltzed around the reception in a trance, mindlessly nodding to anyone who expressed their sorrow for his loss. The casket was open (why it was requested, he did not know), but Sherlock did not dare to direct himself over to it, nor did he ever look in its direction, nor did he dare to even think about it. He pushed all thoughts of the body laying in the box aside, which was not easy to do since everyone kept talking about how great a man Doctor John Hamish Watson was. <em>

_His mind had gone completely blank. He could have deduced who the people at the funeral were and how they were related to John, but he could not and did not necessarily want to. For the first time since his drug days, Sherlock Holmes's thoughts- his entire world- had slowed down. _

_A eulogy was given, though it was not given by Sherlock. As he listened to Harry talk about her brother, he could not help but nod slightly at every positive thing she said. Sherlock regretted that whoever planned the funeral, which he actually had no part in, decided that his mental state was too decrepit that he was incapable of giving John's eulogy, but they had grounds for their decision, and Sherlock was not even sure that he could do it himself. Harry did an adequate job, in his opinion. John was compassionate and loyal. John was truly brave, even more so than Sherlock. There was no one on that god-forsaken planet whom Sherlock could come to as he could to John. No human had ever possessed as huge of a heart as he did. No one's ears could have listened to Sherlock's ramblings, his deductions, his violin music, and his confessions as he did. He was the angel that Sherlock was on the side of the angels for._

_He spotted Mary as Harry was speaking. There were tears in her eyes, and her lips quivered. He wondered how complicated their relationship must have been. They obviously loved each other, and John, being the great man that he was, forgave her for lying to him as he had forgiven Sherlock for lying to him as well. He wondered if he was ever to hear from her again after the funeral._

_Thunder rumbled as Harry stepped away from the podium. The casket was closed, and the ushers removed it from the room. Sherlock knew he was not going to follow the hearse. He knew his limitations, and watching his best friend being lowered into the ground would have been the worst possible thing for his grieving, sentimental soul at the time. It might have helped him accept the fact that he was gone, but Sherlock knew he would never truly move on with his life. He would only find distractions._

_He started to tear up for the first time since that fateful night. Without another word, Sherlock maneuvered between people towards the door with his head down. No one dared to stop him, ask him where he was going, or even acknowledge him, and he was glad. _

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><p>"I can't do this," Sherlock whispered. They had entered the cemetery and were moving towards that dreaded tombstone more quickly than he would have liked. The feeling of dread in his stomach worsened, and it spread up into his chest. "Mrs. Hudson, I-I can't."<p>

She grabbed his forearm gently. "It's fine. You can. I know you can. You wanted to do this, and you are strong enough to do so."

He placed his hand over his mouth. Tears were threatening to fall. "No, h-he was what made m-me strong." His whole body was numb. Sherlock could not feel the tears that had begun to spill over onto his cheeks, the gentleness of Mrs. Hudson's touch, the ground beneath his feet, the gentle breeze that accompanied the sunlight. His mouth was moving without him even realizing it. "He was the only reason I pressed on."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic look and began to softly rub the arm she was touching.

"I know now why Mycroft told me that sentiment was a weakness. I thought I did before John d-_died._ Because this is what happens. You never know who is going to get hurt. One always has to outlive the other, because most... friends don't have the luxury of dying at the same time." Sherlock looked down at the pavement. "One is always left to suffer with all of the memories, whether good or bad. I keep telling myself that he did this for me, and now it's time for me to return the favor."

"We've all been there, Sherlock, and those who have not are going to be in this dark position at some point in there lives. No matter what we do, we cannot avoid it. He would want you to feel whole again, would he not?"

Sherlock sniffed. "He would."

"I'm not pushing you to do anything. You can leave and catch a cab back to Baker Street if you want. But remember, John would not want you to live this way."

"I know." He sighed. "I know. I do. Which is why I am trying to stop avoiding this."

"We will stay as long as we need to," Mrs. Hudson reassured him.

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><p>"Molly?"<p>

John had actually been buried around the place where Sherlock was supposed to have been buried. The tombstone was of a lighter granite with and inscription that described John as a "Beloved Friend, Husband, and Doctor," which was quite an understatement that did a piss-poor job of trying to sum up John Watson's life. There was a small bouquet of white roses that had recently been placed on top of the stone.

"Hello, Sherlock."

He walked over and stood next to her. "They're beautiful," he said, referring to the flowers.

"Yeah. I saw them on my way over here and I thought I would be respectful." Molly ran her fingers through her ponytail. Mrs. Hudson moved closer to Sherlock quietly, yet still gave him and Molly plenty of space.

Sherlock's legs wobbled, his hands shook, and his vision blurred as he tried to remove the letter from his coat pocket. When he was finally successful, he quickly laid it on the ground in front of the tombstone.

"I know we haven't talked in a while, and I'm sorry for that," Molly said. "I always thought you would want your space."

"You're fine. You did not hold any obligation to keep in touch with me. I was an ass to you, remember? I do not deserve your sympathy, and you should not give it to me."

"I saw John's body in the morgue, Sherlock. I heard that you were there. I saw the incision that he knife made in his chest. I filed the paperwork, goddamnit. I should have visited you more often than just on the first anniversary of John's death.

"Molly-

"No, don't start." She held such contempt that Sherlock wondered if this was the same pathologist he had worked with on cases and who had helped him plan his fake suicide. "We all were affected when John was killed, but I knew you would hurt the most even if you didn't want to admit it." She checked her watch. "I had better be getting back. But I do hope to change my actions about this whole thing."

"If it helps you," he replied. Mrs. Hudson moved into the place where Molly had been standing. "She's far too kind for her own good."

"Would you like a moment alone?" his landlady asked him.

"I suppose I would," he replied. Mrs. Hudson nodded and obliged.

Sherlock did not know where to begin. The silence that existed between him and that grave was deafening. It made him even more troubled to think that his former flatmate was rotting in a box just beneath his feet. He turned around to make sure he was really alone before he began.

"Things haven't been the same, you know. My whole life has been thrown into darkness again, as it was before you came along. Like I wrote in my letter, the one sitting right here on the ground, I have finally visited the place where you were buried. I returned all of the stuff you left to me in your will to their usual place in 221B. It really looks like you still are living there, John. I hope you can see it, wherever you are. I think about you everyday, John. I loved you, and I still love you, and I hope to see you again."


	5. Epilogue

**Wow. We are really here. We're at the epilogue. Thank yo guys so much for staying with this story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, a little depressing as it might have been. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock.**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

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><p><em><strong>Thirty Years Later...<strong>_

"Our deaths were twisted, John." There was no one near him, and he preferred it that way. There was no other odor on the room besides his own natural smell and the scent of latex. There was no other sounds besides his own voice and the whirring of the machines willing him to live just a few seconds longer. There was nothing else for him to look at besides the case files strewn across his bed and the gray clouds visible only through the open window. "I keep telling myself that, even after all of these years. It would seem the universe messes with its own proper order if it's trying to give people what they rightfully deserve. and in our situation, that would have been me."

Sherlock threw the manila file onto his legs and used a great deal of strength to grab the one that mattered- the one he had saved for last. "These hospital workers are so incompetent. If you were here, I would be treated well enough to die a few days from now instead of today." He sighed as he eased back into his cheap, plastic pillow. "I still gave them the old deduction treatment, just to prove that I could still do it in my old age. But, when that got boring, as it normally does, I asked the even newer and more ignorant Scotland Yard to bring me records of all of the cases I had worked on." He opened the folder he had just grabbed. "I believe you called this one _A Study in Pink?" _

He laughed to himself. "Oh, I hated that blog of your's, but I was thankful that someone had at least started to take an interest in my work- my life's work." He turned his head away from the file to avoid coughing on it. When he was finished, his whole chest began to ache, as was the new normal for him. "I remember the day you walked into that lab at St. Bart's, which is directly below where they have placed me, which has a central view of where I... landed. Your eyes were so... clouded."

"I was so glad when you finally stopped limping. And, believe it or not, since this might actually make you roll over in your grave, I felt even more disgusted with the human race when I thought upon the fact that no one realized that your limp was psychosomatic. You were suffering, and no one could be bothered to observe what could be fixed. Maybe that was why I hated the human race so much. I always just called them idiots, which they are, but they are ignorant because they do not observe. They focus on small, trivial things that mean close to nothing instead of looking at the whole picture. I had to look at the whole crime scene in order to figure out the killer. I had to look at as much of the person and their movements as possible before I made a deduction about them."

"Bah. As I've grown old, I've piked up a habit of trying to rationalize what will condemn me." Sherlock closed the case file. A feeling rose up in him that this was the last thing he was going to be able to do with his arms, which were starting to feel like lead. His legs had gained that feeling a few minutes earlier. "The last thing I ever did was close a case... or at least the file of one." He smirked, since there was little left in him for a laugh.

"Things were only boring when you weren't involved with them, John. Bu they were still... elementary, my dear Watson."

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><p><em>The first thing Sherlock saw was those damned blueish-grey eyes. "Welcome home, Sherlock," said the voice to which those eyes belonged to. "I've been waiting a while."<em>

_"So have I, John. So have I. Tell me, do I still look old?"_

_ John chuckled. "Even in death, you still can turn the direction of the conversation towards you. No, you look 'bout as young as you were when I met you."_

_"Good. I figured I must be, since my blogger still looked so sexy."_

_"Stop it, you! I didn't wait thirty-two years for you to have you poke fun at me the moment you saw me."_

_"Well, wait else was I supposed to do?"  
><em>

_John sighed. "I take that back. I actually did want you to dish out some of your old antics. You're actually safe here, regarding what you normally say to people. No matter how mad you might make somebody, they still don't have the power to hurt you." He brushed one of Sherlock's dark curls out of his face. "I've been wanting to do that for a while."_

_"Believe me, John. There will be plenty of time for that."_

**_The End._**


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